


i lose you in the dark

by Luthor



Category: Astoria Fate's Kiss, Labyrinths of Astoria (Visual Novel)
Genre: Amnesia, F/F, Memory Loss, post season two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-05-31 15:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthor/pseuds/Luthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Season Two (Spoilers in the Notes): MC turns up on a bench in Central Park with no memory of who she is or how she got there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A quick beginning, for now. I want to see how this goes. 
> 
> SPOILER: this is set Post-Proposal episode and will possibly include references to the special episodes. I'm using my MC, Dax LeBeau (I needed a cutesy romance game name, please don't look at me like that). Title comes from FKA Twigs' 'Breathe'. I'm writing in third person but I wanted to assimilate the game's layout with little bracketed inserts - you'll see what I mean. Let me know if it's off-putting because I'm as of yet still uncertain about it.

It’s too warm here, is her first thought.

Not the first she’s had in her whole life, she doesn’t think, but trying to remember anything before it is like pushing her hands into a dark ocean in search of the bottom.

When she opens her eyes, the sunshine is so bright that it sends her blinking back into the palm of one hand, shielding her face with closed fingers. She feels suddenly exposed, as though freshly thrusted from the darkness into this too-bright, delirious light. It sends her heart stuttering in panic. The breeze that gusts over her bare arms feels abrasive, tugging at each blonde hair until they’re forced on-end. The sunlight against her scalp is nothing short of oppressive.

When she can see again, eyes adjusted, she uncovers her face and blinks out at the unfamiliar greenery surrounding her. The colours are dreamlike and blinding; she winces and turns her head towards a fountain, and the sound of it becomes instantly deafening.

She gawps like a lamb fresh from the womb, and does not struggle to her wobbly legs for fear of falling.

“Where am I?” Her voice strikes tears from both eyes. “ _Who_ am I?”

In her chest, her heart tightens into a pit. She is overwhelmed, suddenly and unreasonably, with a feeling of loss. Something bad has happened. Something _terrible_ is happening to her, and the longer she sits here, the more certain of that does she become. She barely realises that she’s crying until she gasps for a breath, only to sob it back out again. She turns from the fountain to a gaggle of picnicking, worried faces, and lets her body double over into itself.

She hides her face in her hands and cries with one palm against her mouth, pushing as much of the noise back in. It does little to draw attention away from herself, she realises, when a shadow falls across her face with the effectiveness of a cold bucket of water having just been emptied above her head. She freezes and shivers, and rubs beneath her eyes and nose before looking up again.

For a moment, all she can do is stare.

The woman before her seems just as unlikely as the rest of her surroundings – Amazon-like and haloed in sunlight, her hair aflame with it and waving gently into her face. Her expression is stricken with concern—and something other, something that she can’t put her finger on before it has disappeared. She holds her gaze with a level of focus that borders on ferocious, and she daren’t look away.

“What’s wrong?”

“I…”

“Are you hurt?”

She hesitates to answer, and uses the moment to feel around herself for injury. There is none, just the way her chest tightens, tightens, and _tightens_ the longer that she stares at the woman above her. Finally, a small shake of her head. She releases a shuddery breath.

“I don’t think so.”

That out of the way, the woman schools her features. Her eyes turn quickly guarded, her features as still as stone. It does not suit her. She takes the seat on the bench beside her, angling her body so that they can maintain eye contact, and still she cannot look away. She stares until it borders on gaping, and then looks down to swipe again, ineffectively, beneath her eyes.

“Why are you crying?” beside her, voice a soft rasp, almost comforting.

“I-I don’t…”

Her eyes prick with tears again. Seeing her lift a hand to her face, the woman beside her steals the other, and a rush of heat swarms from her ring finger to encase her whole hand. The shock of it draws her attention, but the woman herself seems unconcerned, still holding her gaze. Her grip is soft but strong; she could easily slip her fingers away, yet she does not.

“It’s okay,” the woman tells her, her smile strained, not all like a smile at all. She does not try to hold it for long. “Let me help you.”

(Help me?)

“I don’t even know your name.”

If she didn’t know any better, she might think the brief flash of something across the woman’s steely eyes was hurt. “Medusa,” she says, and the flash is gone as quickly as it arrived, tempting her to think she had imagined it all along.

 _Medusa_.

Her ring finger burns again.

She nods, and then stops, and then blushes darkly.

“I-I don’t, ah… I don’t remember my name.” She says it to their joined hands, fingers interlocked, and feels the heat on her cheeks spread to the base of her neck, her chest. The fingers around hers squeeze twice, a quick squeeze-squeeze as rhythmic as a heartbeat, and she turns back up to grey eyes. “I don’t know where I am.”

Medusa nods her head, slow as a statue regaining life, and swallows a look of brief panic from her face.

“I think I know how to help – somewhere we can go,” she says, the gentle rasp of her voice taking on an edge of urgency. Panic flares through her chest, and it must show on her face. Medusa squeeze-squeezes her fingers again, and her alarm recedes. “It’s okay, it’s just a short walk from here. I know someone there who can help.”

She considers a moment longer, warring between distrust and a blind panic of what could happen if she refuses the offer (where would she go, and who else might she wander into?), and then nods her head. Finally, something like a real smile turns at Medusa’s lips. It’s too small and uncertain, yet still makes her heartbeat skip ahead of her.

“Okay.”

Medusa helps her to her feet with their joined hands. She does not pull away again even once she’s steady.

 

The building she’s brought to is tall and golden in the sunlight.

She has to crane her neck to see its uppermost floors, and just manages to catch the glinting **H.E.R.A** plaque above the doors before she’s led inside. As soon as they enter, women and men in black suits and sunglasses turn their way. One lifts a hand to her ear and says something too quiet for her to make sense of, though her attention is turned elsewhere when an agent steps before them, meaning to block their path.

“H— _LeBeau_?”

When Medusa squeezes her hand this time, she doubts she really means to. She catches her shaking her head, once and very quickly, and shivers at the look on her face. Medusa looks as determined as a queen before an unruly subject.

(It suits her…)

“We’re here to see Cyprin,” Medusa says, and the agent looks warily between them, his eyes lingering on her for a second too long.

“Are they expecting you?”

“It’s urgent.”

The way she says it brokers no doubt. The agent’s eyes narrow behind his sunglasses before he nods his head and steps aside. Medusa leads her forward down a corridor; when she glances briefly back, she spots the same agent watching them from his place, a finger pressed to his earpiece and his lips moving quickly.

When she turns around again, it’s to the sight of an approaching elevator. Medusa calls it to their level with a push of a button, and stands with her spine ramrod straight, awaiting the doors opening. A hot sweat is beginning to pool in the palm that Medusa is holding, though she doubts it’s her own body’s doing. Medusa does not try to look at her when she sneaks a glance at her face. She is stoic, her jaw clenched, her eyes hard and unmoving off the same spot on the elevator’s shining doors.

Without thinking, her fingers contract around Medusa’s, a steady squeeze-squeeze that draws Medusa’s attention towards her.

That earlier look – the one she had tried to school in the park – makes a sudden and overwhelming reappearance. _Hope_. She draws her hand away when she recognises it, and the elevator pings its arrival. She does not question who they’re going to see once they both step inside. The doors close on a silence that neither break as they rise up several floors.

(Just how does Medusa know me? And why did she not say something when she first saw me on the bench…?)


	2. Chapter 2

The elevator stops with a ping, and she watches her own face in the doors, pale and afraid, before they open outside of an office block.

She hears the workforce inside before she sees them. Beside her, at a full head higher, Medusa turns to see her. She meets her gaze, and another one of those small not-quite-a-smiles plays at Medusa’s lips. She thinks it’s supposed to be reassuring. She thinks Medusa could stand to work on that…

“This way,” she’s told, and they step out of the elevator together.

Inside of the office block, an unnerving silence seems to spread outwards from the door that they’ve just stepped through. Medusa does not let it deter her. Her guide makes it several steps ahead before she manages to catch up. At a desk along the way, a woman with short dark hair and spectacles stands from her seat. They make eye contact while passing, a shiver rolls too slowly down between her shoulder blades, and then she turns to face ahead again.

In front of her, Medusa is knocking thrice at an office door. Her eyes linger on the name plaque.

(Whoever Alex Cyprin is, I hope they’ve dealt with this kind of thing before…)

They’re not exactly admitted entrance. Impatient and clearly unnerved, Medusa swipes a second glance her way and then opens the door for herself. She is ushered inside after her, tucking her hands together, making herself as small as she possibly can when the person at the front of the desk spots them. They’re still seated, but half-lift out of their chair before returning again.

“…ah, that’s right,” they say into the telephone receiver, and hold up one finger to hold their unexpected guests in place. The conversation continues for a little longer, while she and Medusa stand awkwardly together yet apart. Eventually, Cyprin lowers their finger. “Actually, that’ll be all, thank you.”

The phone receiver is set carefully back into place. Wide, champagne-coloured eyes glance between her and Medusa, lingering for too long before they stand from their desk. Cyprin does not hide their shock easily. They’re around the desk within seconds, one hand sliding into their trouser pocket. It throws their silhouette just off, shoulders slanted with an edge of casual easiness, yet the hard edge of their clamped jaw ruins the image.

Blinking, they tear their eyes away from her and towards Medusa. A look passes between them that she cannot decipher, and then Cyprin gestures towards a comfortable looking armchair.

“Let’s sit down,” they say, as though they’re already aware of exactly how long this conversation will last, and they aren’t looking forward to it.

She takes the armchair offered, and is only sorry when she does not sink completely into it, vanishing from existence. Behind her, she hears pacing footsteps stop somewhere near the window. Cyprin does not spare Medusa a glance, but sits opposite her on a similarly comfortable looking sofa. Their hands clasp between their parted legs.

“How much do you remember?”

“Nothing,” Medusa answers for her, her voice sounding harsher than she remembers hearing it. “She doesn’t remember a thing.”

Cyprin looks disbelievingly at her for a second, and then wets their lips.

“Okay,” they say, sighing it out as though they’re looking for a place to begin explaining.

The entire show has her heart pounding again – thick inside her chest, and squeezing with each second beat. She has to resist the urge to press a hand to it, though the panic must show on her face. Cyprin’s expression turns suddenly reassuring, their smile strong if uncertain. Even the sideward flop of their hair against their forehead is charming in an effortless kind of way.

“This isn’t a hospital,” she says in response, and Cyprin’s expression drops into surprise.

“Are you hurt?”

“No…” She wets her lips, but swallowing is suddenly impossible. “Do you know who I am?”

Cyprin’s surprise sinks into a wide smile. It comes naturally to them, and she feels the heat from it all the way from her over-stuffed armchair. A smile like that can’t help but disarm you, and she feels suddenly all the more settled for having seen it.

“Yes,” they say, and the concern is back. “I’m sure this is difficult.”

“Difficult,” she repeats.

(Try terrifying.)

“Your name is Dax LeBeau. You’re one of my best field agents. Several weeks ago, you hit your head on a stakeout and were knocked unconscious.”

She can’t help but gawp. “S-several weeks ago?”

“That’s right.” Cyprin’s eyes turn tight in the corners. “Dax, you haven’t exactly… been _yourself_ for a while.”

The revelation leaves her cold and shaken, all the worse for her having not entirely understood it. She grips her arms at the elbows and sinks further into the armchair, trying to gather her thoughts. Seeing this, Cyprin touches their knuckles to their lips and then perks up.

“I’ll explain exactly what’s happened, and I promise you that you no longer need to worry. But first,” and they stand, smile returning if only weakly, “I’ll bring us all some tea.”

 

Afterwards, Dax sits alone in the office.

Cyprin hadn’t asked for help clearing away the tea tray, and Medusa had not offered – though she had followed them out of the office without a word. Dax had watched them leave with an unsettling feeling in her stomach, but the silence had not lasted. Her thoughts are too loud, and her racing heartbeat even louder. She takes a deep breath, as she has been doing for the past five minutes, and holds it for three seconds before releasing it again through her nose.

Amnesia. Hera. A life that she can’t remember, nor is she sure that she really wants to return to.

(Has my job always been so… dangerous?)

The absolute stillness of the office is broken with the sound of a door handle clicking open. Dax turns her head in time to watch a woman struggle in. It’s the same woman from the office, her spectacles low on her nose as she balances a tray in one hand – more tea and a plate of biscuits this time. She gets through the door before Dax can offer to help, and smiles down at her as she sets the tray on the coffee table.

Dax watches her uncertainly, unspeaking.

After a moment, the woman threads her fingers together and wobbles on one small heel. “You really don’t remember, do you?” She’s the first person to look so physically defeated by the news, and Dax searches helplessly for something to say - a consolation. Before she lands on anything that seems even remotely acceptable, the woman pushes her glasses further up her nose and folds her arms against her chest, blowing out a sigh. “Wow, this _sucks_.”

The strangled huff of laughter surprises both of them. As soon as Dax realises it’s come out of her own mouth, the noise stops altogether and her face falls.

“Try being on this side of it,” she sighs, and that at least brings a wobbly smile to the woman’s lips. “I’m sorry, I… Who are you?”

She has to compose herself in much the same way that Medusa had, almost an hour ago now. (Talk about the morning escaping you…) Finally, the woman takes a seat on the opposing sofa and smiles afresh, as though the bigger it comes, the more convincing it’ll look. Dax is only sorry that it doesn’t have its intended affect.

“May,” finally, and they both nod their heads, as though meeting again for the first time.

“And, who are you to me?”

May opens her mouth to speak, and then stops. What does ‘BFF’ mean to somebody who can’t remember you? “We’re friends,” she says, almost too quietly. “We're best friends. We met almost four years ago, when I started working here. We tell each other everything. Well, we did, until…”

“Until I hit my head too hard and it woke up the dormant goddess inside of me.” She pales when she says it, and May looks no happier.

“But it’ll be okay, Dax. Your memory will come back.”

She looks too hopeful when she says it, like she isn’t exactly sure of that herself.

“Cyprin thinks so,” Dax tells her, and the conversation dries out.

They’re saved from an awkward silence by the opening of the office door. Cyprin makes their return with a reassuring smile. Medusa, a tighter jaw and stiff shoulders. May hesitates when seeing them, but then clears her throat and stands. She gestures to the biscuits with a raise of her eyebrows, urging Dax to eat them while they’re there, and leaves after wishing her well. Dax eyes the biscuits once she’s gone, but doubts she could even finish a second cup of tea.

Without hesitation, Cyprin takes May’s vacated seat. Medusa paces towards the window again, stiffness radiating out of her like an aura.

“We’ve never had to deal with something like this before,” Cyprin says, “so this is new territory for H.E.R.A, but we want to make you as comfortable as possible. I’m sure this is all very confusing.” Dax dips her head in agreement, and Cyprin’s attention wavers towards Medusa over her shoulder, before refocusing their attention on Dax. “There are beds here, if you would feel more comfortable staying, or H.E.R.A can provide you with a hotel room. The other option is…”

Footsteps behind her armchair draw Dax’s attention towards Medusa.

“I can bring you home,” Medusa tells her, and Dax blinks.

(Of course I have a home. That’s normal. Absolutely no surprise whatsoever.)

“Home?” she repeats, leaning towards the option, and Medusa nods her head.

“Our home.”

(Oh.)

Her wide-eyed gaze shifts to Cyprin, and then back again. Medusa barely looks to be breathing.

“We… live together?”

Medusa swallows tightly. Her focus strains towards Dax’s lap, where she continues to look until she gives a short nod. It takes Dax a moment longer to follow her line of sight, and then she stares, confused, at her own clasped hands. There’s nothing remarkable that she can pick out, except the hot band on one finger, and the—

( _Oh_.)

She hopes she doesn’t gasp too loudly.

“We have been, officially, for almost a year.”

She’s aware of Cyprin talking, their voice melodic and reassuring, and utterly incomprehensible beneath the sound of blood rushing past her ears. How had she not noticed an engagement ring? She can barely take her eyes away from it, now, just long enough to see Medusa’s unmoving expression, and then back again. She runs her thumb along it and feels her breath stick in her throat at the size of the diamond.

(I have a fiancée… and I _forgot about her_.)

When she can tune back in to what Cyprin is saying, they’re already on their feet, and holding out a torn piece of paper towards her. Dax takes it numbly, her eyes skimming over the two numbers written there, one labelled ‘Office’ and the other ‘Personal’. She folds the paper together and holds it in her lap. When her eyes stray to Medusa, she can feel a blush hot on her cheeks before she manages to look away.

“Home will be fine, thank you,” she tells Cyprin, closing their number inside a fist.

That settled, Medusa seems to take her first breath of the morning. It is too loud and exhaled too quickly. She runs a flustered hand through her hair and then straightens again, as though having just had a thought. Dax’s stomach drops in apprehension.

“We’ll have to get the tube,” Medusa says, “and… we should probably let your brother know what’s going on.”

( _Wait_.)

“I have a brother?”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s past noon by the time they make it home.

Dax supposes that she has to think of it as that, even if she could walk past the little pink house without a second glance were it not for Medusa leading the way. As she walks up the path towards the front door, she finds herself admiring its picket-fence domesticity. The lawn is vibrant green and well-kept; not a single weed pokes up between the flagstones or along the edges of the surrounding fence.

She wonders, vaguely, if she’s had any hand in keeping it this tidy, and struggles to imagine herself on hands and knees, dirtied fingers wrapped around a trowel.

She struggles to imagine herself here, full stop.

Medusa unlocks the front door and glances back once she’s over the threshold, as though to make sure that she’s still being tailed. Dax steps inside with the timidity of a house guest. It’s beautifully decorated, though she hadn’t been expecting anything less from a woman like Medusa. She doubts, sadly, that that’s any inclination towards her returning memory.

Once the door closes behind her, the house falls into silence.

Ahead of her, Medusa makes a short humming noise, and then pivots around in place to see her. Dax holds very still, hands together, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Medusa catches her lost look and barely holds back her own.

“So,” Dax makes herself say, eyes darting around the room. “We live here.”

At first glance, there doesn’t seem to be a single photograph on the walls or shelves. It leaves an uneasy feeling in her stomach, as though she’s just stepped uninvited into a stranger’s house, or one of those showrooms set up to advertise expensive furniture. When her gaze finally lands on the sole photograph of the room – framed and front-and-centre on the fireplace – she can’t help but sigh out her relief.

“We do,” Medusa says, and Dax can hear her footsteps somewhere behind her as she steps up towards the picture.

It’s been taken from a distance, a candid shot in what looks to be the centre of a park, with neither subject aware of the camera. The leaves on the tree behind them are crisp and orange in the sunlight, dating it back to autumn, but they’re not what holds her attention. She and Medusa are facing one another with their eyes still closed, lips barely an inch apart and up-turned as though they’ve just parted from a kiss. There’s a pink flush in each of their cheeks that Dax doesn’t want to put down to the temperature.

She must stare for too long, but Medusa does not interrupt her. She can practically feel the other woman beside her, holding her breath as she holds her own. It is the perfect moment for a revelation. Dax waits for it, the sensation of her stomach dropping, her throat closing, tears welling behind her eyes – she waits for the _this is my life!_ to spark a shiver up her spine. Instead, nothing. She blinks twice and releases her breath. When she inhales again, there is no change in her heartrate, her palms do not sweat, her stomach does not sink.

(It’s like looking at a picture of my doppelganger.)

She becomes aware of Medusa breathing again when a quiet sigh comes from her side. She tries not to let her own disappointment show, and forces a smile with her lips when she angles her face to the side. Medusa does not meet her gaze; her expression is as stiff as a stone wall.

“You look so happy here.”

“We were.”

 

Lunch is light and quiet and awkward.

Afterwards, Medusa decides to show Dax around the house. Every time Dax stops at an ornament or touches a piece of furniture, she pauses the tour to watch her, her eyes bright but refusing to let that desperate expression of hope shine out again. Dax avoids looking at her each time it happens, but feels no better for it. Guilt twists like a knife through her gut, and her own fingers are wrapped around the handle.

They linger in the main bedroom while Medusa points out Dax’s things. She has a wardrobe and a set of drawers and little bottles of perfume on the vanity table that they apparently share. She lifts a palm-sized pink bottle into her hand and smells the top without spraying, but while the perfume is pleasant, it is also utterly unfamiliar.

“Bathroom’s through here,” Medusa says once the bottle’s been returned, stepping ahead of her once again. She turns on a light and lets Dax peer inside; spacious and well-decorated. She can certainly see herself living comfortably here – though she can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t.

“And the garden?” she finds herself asking, more out of curiosity, as well as a desperate hope for some sudden spark of recognition. If she covers every inch of the house, then perhaps…

Medusa’s small smile cuts the thought off. Her face relaxes with it, the tension melting aside if for just a moment, and Dax feels those shivers she’d been expecting earlier tingling all the way up her spine. From the first moment she’d saw her, she’d thought Medusa impossibly beautiful, but this… She’s never known the colour grey to look so _warm_.

“Come on,” she’s told, a head of red hair tipping to one side to gesture at the stairs, “you’ll like this.”

 

She shouldn’t be surprised when Medusa is right.

The garden is domestic bliss in and of itself. Dax has to keep her jaw off the ground while she takes it in, shoulders finally relaxing as the somewhat oppressive heat of the enclosed greenhouse sinks beneath the collar of her blazer. She takes a double- and then triple-take of the flowers, half of which she isn’t sure she’s ever seen before, and then stares agape at a beaming Medusa.

“Gods, looks at this,” she says, staring openly at Medusa’s face. The smile gradually recedes, though there’s still a twinkle of amusement in grey eyes. “This is all your doing, right?” She turns towards an overflowing trellis of wisteria, fingers touching the dangling ends of purple flowers. (The air in here smells so _good_.) “I can’t imagine ever making something so beautiful.”

“It is,” Medusa agrees, undoubtedly proud. “Though you’ve reaped the benefits of it yourself.”

(I bet.)

Dax turns again to take it in, and suddenly wishes she were barefoot. She’s sure the soil would be warm against her soles.

“I only wish I could remember…”

The heat feels all the more oppressive for her confession, and she turns almost guiltily towards Medusa. Her grey eyes are tight with agreement, and Dax has a sudden urge to reach out to her, take her hand, squeeze-squeeze it and reassure her that she’s sure to remember eventually… It’d feel too much like a lie, she figures in the end, and does nothing.

“This must be strange for you,” she does manage, and Medusa wets her lips before nodding her agreement. Before she can apologise for that (gods know I truly am), Medusa inhales and shows her another tender smile.

“I’m just glad you’re _you_ again.”

There’s a look on her face that Dax isn’t entirely sure that she wants to decipher. She supposes she’d be pretty weirded out, too, if her fiancée went to work one day and came back a Greek Goddess. (Okay, try horrified. Still.) She offers a sympathetic smile of her own, as though she can understand any of what Medusa is feeling right now, and clears her throat.

“So… you mentioned my brother?” Recognition flashes through Medusa’s eyes. “Do we, um,” Dax wets her lips, “get along well?”

Another smile graces Medusa’s lips, and Dax feels herself glow with it. (Definitely just the heat…)

“Oh, don’t worry,” Medusa tells her, and she can’t help but take strength from her confidence. “He’s difficult not to love.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dax waits twenty minutes on the couch by the door, though it feels like longer.

She hears a teacup being set down on the coffee table, and the noise is enough to startle her. She twists around to see Medusa, and the sudden movement after staring in one direction for so long has her neck twinging painfully.

“ _Ouch_.”

Medusa eyes her as she takes a seat on an armchair, holding her own teacup beneath her chin with both hands. Her lips quirk sympathetically as Dax massages her neck, but she looks more intent on wiggling some comfort into her seat, as though she’s not used to sitting in it. She settles finally with a pinched expression, unsatisfied with her position, and then realises that she’s still being watched.

“He’ll be here soon.”

“He’s late,” Dax adds, her neck straining around again to see the front window.

“Mm, that’s just Josh.”

Her gaze swings around to the nearest clock, slower this time, cautious not to give herself whiplash. They’d been expecting him at seven. It’s now nearly half past. It’s not a huge delay, and yet her anxiety seems to spike with every other minute. (Josh is coming from work. He’s probably been held up. He’s maybe even just as nervous as I am about this and is waiting somewhere, avoiding it…)

Medusa takes a sip from her teacup, but as she’s savouring her first mouthful, she notices the way that Dax’s fingers are beating a nervous rhythm against her arm. “Try your tea,” she offers, capturing her attention again, and then nods down to the teacup she’d placed on the table. “It’s the perfect temperature.”

Dax takes the teacup out of obligation rather any real desire for it, and yet as she takes her first polite sip, the tangy-sweet flavour sends a shiver running up her spine. Her eyes widen at the unexpected citrusy taste, but it is not unpleasant, and her reaction draws a smile from Medusa, at least.

“Don’t worry,” she’s told, and the tension eases out of her shoulders as though her body instinctively knows how to respond to Medusa’s command. “He’ll have been held up. He usually is when coming from work, but he always tries to make up for—”

She’s interrupted by the doorbell, and Dax almost splutters into her tea in surprise.

It can only be one person, and Dax suddenly isn’t sure that she’s ready for him. The waiting had been agony, and yet Josh’s arrival still seems to have blindsided her. She returns her teacup to the table so quickly that it almost spills, and twists her hands together in her lap. Medusa is the one to stand and answer the door, and Dax watches her make her way towards it with wide eyes and a too-fast heartbeat.

(Gods, why am I so nervous…)

From where she’s sitting, she can only make out the brief but warm greeting that occurs. She almost rises right out of her seat to get a look at her brother, and is perched with a hand against the back of the sofa when he appears.

He’s taller than she’d imagined – not quite lanky, but definitely half a foot taller than her – but her resemblance to him is instantly recognisable in his dirty blonde hair and dark eyes. His own crinkle in the corners when he grins, his smile taking up his face the way certain smiles do, and Dax’s nervous energy spills out of her.

“Hey there,” he says, fighting to keep his hold on the bag in his arms, and his smile turns sheepish though no less welcoming. “I know I’m late, but I’m hoping some leftovers will make up for it?”

“Ah, that’s what you’ve got in there,” Medusa hums, closing the door with a smile, and Josh shrugs as well as he can without dropping his armful, feigning offense. He might have just pulled the look off, too, if not for his smile.

“Do I ever come empty handed?”

Medusa scoffs and Josh pokes his tongue out at her, and Dax watches helplessly on, feeling removed from the moment. She stands from her seat, finally, not sure that she could stand to sit for much longer, and Josh’s gaze returns to her. It’s as warm as before and his smile inclusive; Dax is nothing but thankful for his arrival.

“Come on, then, slow-poke. You remembered your appetite, at least, right?”

He’s halfway towards the kitchen before Dax can close her mouth, half-choking on a startled laugh. It brims into the first real smile that she can remember having since waking up on the park bench, and remains in the corners of her lips while Josh unpacks the food and Medusa finds plates. They work quickly and in-tandem with each other, and Dax can’t help but stare as Josh pulls out three pairs of utensils from a drawer she hadn’t even known they belonged in.

The entire ritual feels surreal— in a pleasant way. She can imagine it being performed countless times in the past, and feels herself aching to remember it.

(It’s good to know Medusa and I have my family’s blessings, I guess.)

Her attention snaps back into sharp focus when she realises that Medusa has only set out two plates, and appears to make no move towards gathering a third. When Medusa catches her gaze, she smiles like she’s been found out and shrugs, “I’ll give you two some time to catch up.”

“But you haven’t eaten dinner—”

Dax stops at the sound of a rustling bag; Josh produces a perfectly packaged box of something warm and delicious, handing it over to Medusa with a knowing grin.

“I’ll be in the garden,” Medusa says, picking a fork. When Dax tries to protest again that it’s really not necessary, she adds, “I’ve got some reading to catch up on, anyway. Save me some dessert.”

“No promises,” Josh calls after her, and Dax struggles for a second not to insist that she stay. She stares after her with a wide-eyed, uncertain expression, but Medusa’s smile is encouraging before she finally disappears. _Come back_ , Dax feels like yelling, _I’m gonna make things awkward_! When she turns back to Josh, he’s holding two cartons of food out towards her. “Chicken or prawn?”

“Um… both?”

Josh snorts as he sets a carton down to grab a fork. “Good to know not everything’s changed.”

Dax blushes without knowing exactly why.

 

Ever thankful for the distraction, Dax gets through half of her plate before she realises that Josh is watching her. There’s no wide grin on his face this time – not even a smirk – but a look she can’t exactly read. She wants to call it concern, but her brother’s apparently better at hiding that than she’d like. Having been caught, he takes a sip from his glass of water, averting his gaze.

“You can say it,” Dax tells him, and smiles at Josh’s look of confusion. “This is weird.”

“Yeah,” he huffs. “This entire thing has been very weird.”

“I was told it’d been weeks since I… since the whole thing began?”

“Mm,” Josh agrees with a dip of his head. “A little less than that for me, but…”

“Wait. They didn’t tell you straight away?”

For a moment, Josh looks surprised at _her_ surprise. When he recovers, it’s with a good natured smile. “Yeah, no. I’m not exactly what you’d call _in the loop_ ,” he makes air quotes, fork still in hand, “when it comes to your work. It’s always been that way, though.”

“But you’re my brother, you’re— my closest living relative,” Dax insists, a sense of indignation burning up her gut on Josh’s behalf. (Or maybe that’s just indigestion. I should probably slow down…) “You should’ve been the first person they told.”

Josh looks almost charmed that she’d think so, but there’s an underlying teasing to his smile, something that says he’ll remind her of this when she has her memory back – when everything is back to normal and they can verbally spar like siblings are supposed to.

“I guess,” he says, finally. “I mean, I’d have liked that, sure. I could've done with a heads up about mom and Hera, but… this whole thing is kind of above me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, aside from you and Medusa, we don’t really talk about your work. Olympus doesn’t want everyone knowing their business.” He shrugs as though it should be common sense. “It’s no big deal.”

Dax muses on that while she chews through another mouthful. As welcoming as Josh has been, she gets the impression that there’s a lot unsaid between them. She wonders if that’s partly her fault, or if her work really is that secretive. Cyprin hadn’t mentioned much when explaining what her job was, but the stakeout that had led to her… _situation_ sounded pretty confidential.

(We still seem pretty close, regardless, but… _Wait_.)

“What do you mean, aside from me and Medusa? She doesn’t work for Olympus.”

“Ha, hum…” Josh laugh-coughs and takes another sip of water. “Oh, no. Sorry, sis, but that one’s all hers.”


End file.
